


my better half

by caramelchameleon



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Head Injury, Makeshift first aid, Spiders, google can't tell me how to diagnose a spider, i get to make up the consequences of the head injury, speculation on nonhuman psychology, the victim is not anatomically human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9842546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelchameleon/pseuds/caramelchameleon
Summary: "Hard and black, like my better half." -- webber, charcoal examination quotei wrote about a conversation where webber's spider half was aware and intelligent enough to contribute to the discussion and then people asked for more, so these are technically all completely unrelated oneshots except for the fact that the spider features prominently. have funlatest addition: two nonhumans comparing notes





	1. on WX

**Author's Note:**

> these are all at least vaguely set in a DST roleplay server that i participate in (as webber ofc) so a few events and character interactions that took place there are referenced; the first two are not explicitly based on anything we've done there, it's just where my mind is at. the third is loosely structured around conversations that did happen in the roleplay, but isn't a word-for-word transcript.

“You understand that you don’t have to put up with them, dear,” Ms. Wickerbottom says gently, stoking the fire and adding another log, to be safe. The blaze crackles merrily, light dancing over the hunched child-figure sitting across the firepit from her. Reflections gleam in eight layers of tapetum lucidum, making his eyes shine disconcertingly in the dim light.

“We don’t mind,” Webber insists, most of their attention focused on the silk bird-trap they’re weaving. He has, of course, an affinity for such things.

“If they say anything that bothers you, please go and tell a responsible adult,” Wickerbottom persists, settling down to her own evening project - a thick sheaf of papyrus to bind into crude books. She mentally reviews the number of people on the island who qualify for the title ‘responsible adult.’ “Well, you can always come tell me.”

“Alright.” He withdraws a little, chin tucked to his furry chest, and focuses harder on the half-made net of silk in their hands. “Ms. Wickerbottom, we understand WX is a jerk, but we really don’t mind talking to them. They haven’t said anything really bad to us.”

Nearly every word out of the automaton’s mouth is either an insult or a demand. Their stance on organic life has been made abundantly clear. They’ve bragged in the past about deriving amusement from feeding Webber dishes made of spider meat, which he eats without comment or complaint. Almost everyone else in camp is fed up with the thing’s antics. Wendy tolerates it because her fascination with death meshes unfortunately well with the robot’s fascination with killing, Wickerbottom  
tolerates it, the ability to call lightning giving her a bargaining chip of something WX wants.. and here sits Webber, who is unflinchingly polite to the wretched thing.

“We know they’ve got no manners,” Webber says, eyes still focused on the pattern they’re weaving. “And then everyone is rude back.. I didn’t know what manners were before I, you know. Met him.” One of the extraneous spider’s legs issuing from roughly the area of the child’s neck makes a vague gesture pointing at himself.

Ms. Wickerbottom notes the shift in language. ‘I,’ not 'we.’ The gesture indicating himself from the neck down.

“Spiders don’t have the language for any of that. The faster stronger spiders get to eat. A big colony can push a smaller nest around if they try to settle in the same territory. That’s how it is. WX thinks they’re the strongest.”

“If they’ve been taking things from you -” Wickerbottom says, trying to follow the thread of the argument.

“No,” Webber says, visibly frustrated, legs waving to cut her off. “No no. WX even gives us stuff. Food and toys and stuff they don’t want. I mean I’m telling you the other one is the one with manners who knows how to say things nice. Humans have all these complicated rules and I don’t get them all. WX isn’t human either.”

Through it all Webber’s hands are still steadily working on the last knots of the trap, bending thin, whippy twigs into shape so the tension will help them snap shut on an unsuspecting bird. “WX isn’t nice in the human way but nobody taught them how and they don’t think they have a reason to. He thinks,” another gesture at their body, “we should be very polite and very human and humans won’t be as mad at us. He’s the one who knows how to act human and I let him. I hear the way you talk about spiders.” Eight eyes glassy in the firelight, unreadable. “But you humans help each other. So for you we’re human. WX isn’t human and doesn’t try to act like one. But we think we understand maybe a little.”

It’s disconcerting, talking directly to a spider, if that’s what this is. Wickerbottom isn’t certain whether this is an artifact of the thing’s long association with Webber, or whether all wild spiders have this level of intelligence and analytical ability, and this one merely has the language to fully express itself. She’d spent so long mentally categorizing Webber as a child as human as herself, in deeply unfortunate circumstances and with an appearance he couldn’t help. But if what he was saying now was true, that had been deliberately cultivated.

“Webber, dear,” she began, cautiously. “Or should I call you something else? Webber, are you still..” She cut herself off, unable to phrase the question tactfully. If 'Webber’ had been nothing but a spider skillfully emulating human behavior, did that change relations between them?

“We’re both Webber,” they answered, setting the completed trap aside. “I’m still here, Ms. Wickerbottom. He told you, I’m the one who knows how to be human. I’m sorry if we upset you.”

Wickerbottom is mildly ashamed to feel relief. “You don’t need to apologize, dear.”

“It doesn’t hurt anything to be polite to WX.” Webber fidgets, now, with nothing to occupy his hands. “That’s okay, isn’t it? They might never learn how themself but the other part of me, he’s learning a little from watching what I do.”

“It’s not your job to civilize every nonhuman in the wilderness, dear child, but it’s very kind of you to think of WX-78 that way.” Few enough people do, certainly. It seems to cheer Webber up to hear that, in any case.

“Thank you, Ms. Wickerbottom,” they say, rising to their feet with the completed bird-trap in their hands. Night is falling rapidly, as always, starless darkness closing in around the campfire. “We’re going to set this with the others, and then maybe go to sleep, unless you’ve got questions.”

“Go right ahead, Webber,” she insists, waving him off. Questions can wait until morning, especially if he’s tired. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night.”

Carefully, by firelight, she scratches crude quill pen-on-papyrus notes on the ecology of the island, and speculations on nonhuman psychology.


	2. alone

It’s a calm night, at least as calm as things get, in this place. There’s a thick layer of snow on the ground, and a waxing, more than half-full moon hanging in the unnaturally black sky, but the firepit is warm and the iceboxes well stocked. A handful of survivors have clustered around the warmth of the fire, enjoying the relative peace.

The calm is shattered when Webber and Wendy stumble into camp haphazardly supporting each other. There are fresh tears frozen on Wendy’s cheeks, a pale and lifeless flower clutched in her free hand. The light from Webber’s mining helmet is dim and nearly extinguished, and he leans heavily on Wendy to one side and a walrus-ivory cane on the other, spiderlimbs pawing vaguely at the air.

There’s a brief explosion of hubbub and panic as everyone tries to leap to their feet and help the children at once. Wickerbottom’s reedy voice is unable to cut across the commotion; it takes a thunderous bellow from Wolfgang to restore order.

Heated stones and warm blankets are the easiest to procure, and Walani is delegated away to the ‘kitchen’ area for food. Wilson sorts through the storage chests for salve and bandages, fretting himself half to pieces along the way, and between them Wolfgang and Wickerbottom guide the children to sit, as close to the fire as is safe.

Wendy sits stiffly and woodenly, fingers still clenched so tightly around Abigail’s flower that Wickerbottom is afraid she’ll crush the frail petals, and her pale skin is marred by scratches and the beginnings of some unpleasant-looking bruises. Something with sharp teeth has left one ankle a bloody mess. Webber’s injuries are less obvious under their thick coat of fur, and he’s settled into a hunched, curled-up position, still clutching the cane for support, all eight eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Two legs. Stupid,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and thick.

“What on Earth happened to you two?” Wickerbottom demands, concern winning out over indignation, but only just. It’s not the first time any of their little group has been injured, and the children aren’t immune no matter how much anyone might wish otherwise, but when this particular pair has gotten into dangerous mischief in the past, it’s been a safe bet to assume that Wendy had the idea and dragged sweet, agreeable Webber into it.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wickerbottom,” Wendy sniffles. Wolfgang’s enormous hand rubs her frail back with infinite tenderness. “It was my fault. I wanted to show Webber something downstairs.”

‘Downstairs’ is their euphemism for 'underground,’ to the maze of cave systems that winds its way beneath the island. The place has its uses, but wandering too far through the caves is exponentially more dangerous than exploring aboveground, and the eternal darkness poses a constant threat as well as weighing on one’s spirits. It’s easy enough to guess details from there - the children are strictly forbidden from spelunking on their own, but Wendy has depressingly little regard for authority and Webber is loyal enough to follow her. The roving worm-creatures would account for Wendy’s wound and Abigail’s dismissal…

Wilson attempts to dab some of the blood away from Wendy’s ankle, with a bowl of warm snow-melted water ready to hand, but she deliberately pulls her leg away. “Treat Webber first,” she insists, although her pained expression is obvious. “He’s hit his head… there was an earthquake…”

Webber opens two eyes - not the large main pair, two of the lesser eyes to one side - and hisses, low and vicious. It makes Wilson flinch and Wolfgang swallow a startled yelp, but Wickerbottom remains firm, begins to reach for his helmet so they can assess the damage.

“None of that, young man,” she chides him. Webber’s spiderlimbs try vainly to swipe at her hands, push her away, but the blows are weak and unfocused, and she pulls the hat away to assess the damage with pursed lips. There’s not much to look at, externally; a matted area of fur and a faint smear of the unnaturally-colored blood leaking from his tough carapace. The rock that hit him must have been blunt, not sharp, but no less damaging for that.

“Leave me alone,” he whines, squeezing their eyes shut again and curling tighter in on himself. “Help Wendy first, she’s bleeding, I can smell her bleeding -”

“Enough of that nonsense,” Wickerbottom says briskly, before it can become an endless circle of self-sacrifice. She kneels beside Wendy, takes Wilson’s water-soaked rag. “We are treating both of you at once because you are both obviously hurt. Wilson, what is your opinion on that head injury?” He’s the one with formal medical training, however spotty it might have been.

Wilson shuffles over for a closer look, bites his lip. “I don’t know how to check compound eyes for a concussion. Or how Webber’s anatomy works in general, I’m afraid… There’s plenty of ice, at least.” He reaches to gently probe at the injury, looking for the extent of the cut. “A cold pack, some salve and some rest might be the best we can -”

When his fingers brush against Webber’s fur, the boy lets out a hoarse, snarling moan, not of pain but raw fear. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps, flinching away, “don’t don’t don’t…” His spiderlegs curl to cover his face, hiding his eyes. “Wake up and help me, why won’t you wake up..”

“Just let them help, Webber,” Wendy coaxes, voice tight but otherwise stoic in the face of Wickerbottom disinfecting the deep wounds in her leg. She glances sidelong up at Wilson, sees the adults’ confusion. “It’s the spider. I think he got knocked out when he hit his head but the spider kept going. Its brain must be somewhere different and it’s scared. Webber, nobody is going to hurt you…”

He opens a few eyes and peers at Wendy through his legs, the round white dots gleaming in the firelight. “He won’t wake up. Wendy, I don’t know how to deal with all these people. Not on my own.”

Wilson suppresses his mingled disgust and scientific curiosity and moves, carefully, into the spider’s field of vision. “I’m going to touch you if you’ll let me,” he tries. “I’m not going to hurt you and Wendy would probably pop me one if I did. I’m more or less a doctor. I’d like to take a better look at your head and then you should get some rest anyway, and us humans will leave you alone. Okay?”

“Okay,” the spider allows, cautious, and Wilson pushes its fur aside to examine the wound as gently as he knows how. It shudders but doesn’t object to the touch this time.

“Standard practice is to ask you questions to keep you talking and alert but again I don’t know how that works when I guess you’re not really the one who’s concussed,” Wilson says. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No,” it insists.

“Show him your arm, Webber,” Wendy says, gentle but insistent. Her leg has been neatly bandaged, and Wickerbottom is making and applying honey poultices for the worst of Wendy’s other scrapes. Under normal circumstances she might have begun to protest this coddling, but apparently keeping Webber calm is enough of a distraction to keep her passive, which is all for the good as far as Wickerbottom is concerned.

Reluctantly, Webber unfolds enough to display the underside of his right arm to Wilson. The long scrapes, probably the fault of another hungry worm, are unpleasant but not deep.

“Salve will do for this,” Wilson decides, “and for the one on your head. Will you let me do that or do you want to put it on yourself?”

“You’d better,” Webber says, deeply reluctant. “I’m not as good with his hands.” It doesn’t react nearly as strongly to being touched this time, even though Wilson knows the crude disinfectant they use stings like the dickens. Either it’s beginning to trust Wilson’s good intentions or it’s worn itself out.

“Brave spider-child should not hide wounds,” Wolfgang tries, and Webber glares at the poor man with another low hiss. Wolfgang stands, rather abruptly. “Wolfgang will get ice.”

“Be nice,” Wickerbottom chides it. “Now tell the truth this time - are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No,” Webber says, meekly. Ms. Wickerbottom’s no-nonsense manner appears to transcend species to get results. “Really this time, no more.”

Walani and Wolfgang return from the direction of the 'kitchen.’ Wolfgang is lugging an entire stone pot of thick, meaty stew; Walani has, as usual, opted for the easier path and is bringing a stack of wooden bowls in one hand and a bundle of grass presumably containing ice in the other.

Walani hands over the crude cold pack to Wilson and starts dishing out her stew, passing a bowl each to Wendy and Webber. “Soup’s up, dudes, eat it while it’s hot.” She ladles out a third bowl for Wolfgang, who accepts it with the clear gratitude of a man who has never turned down food in his life. “I overheard most of that, enough that I got the vibe, I think,” she continues, offering a fourth bowl to Wickerbottom and then to Wilson; when they both refuse, she settles down to eat it herself. “Feeling any better yet, spiderbuddy?”

Webber has the cold pack in two of their spiderlimbs, holding it firmly to their head while leaving both hands free to grip the carved-birchwood bowl. “Better. Yes,” it says, claws fidgeting for a better grip on the ice. “He’s, the other half’s not really awake yet but he’s not so quiet. I think he’s okay.”

“That is good news!” Wolfgang declares, already returning to the pot for seconds.

“Once you’ve eaten, get as much rest as you can,” Wickerbottom instructs them. “That goes for both of you children, but especially Webber. Take those thermal stones with you. You’re most certainly exempt from chores around camp until you’ve made a full recovery.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Wendy says, her usual melancholy composure all but returned. Before long she sets her bowl aside, takes a glowing-red stone into her lap, and waits for Webber to finish. He’s clumsier about it but more enthusiastic for the food, and finishes to the last drop.

Wilson helps both children to their feet and gets them back into position supporting each other, which will certainly get them far enough to reach a tent if it got them back to camp in the first place. He notes that the spider’s objection to being touched by humans doesn’t appear to apply in this case. It’s not exactly proper for Wendy and Webber to share a tent for the night, but they’ve done it before and this place is far, far past propriety.

Once the two of them have left the circle of firelight, Wilson sags slightly and turns to look at Wickerbottom, who is already washing out the discarded bowls in the basin of snowmelt. “I’m never going into pediatrics.”

“Or veterinary work, I presume,” she rejoins, peering over the top of her glasses at him.

“That either.”


	3. Chapter 3

WX-78 doesn’t say anything right away when they arrive. The summer sandstorm is still whipping over the desert sands behind their back, but near the oasis the wind is gentle enough that they can pull the goggles up and off their faceplate. There’s a well-stoked endothermic fire crackling away beside the lake, and a few of the fragile plants that grow here have been scooped out of the sandy dirt and replanted in a row of tiny stone containers. The tiny plants are barely edible and worthless for anything else, so WX doesn’t see the point.

The spider hunched over by the water’s edge waves a hairy limb in greeting, hands busying themselves pulling in his silk fishing line as he speaks. “Hello, Mx. 78. What do you think of the succulents? Ms. Wicker taught us how to pot them without hurting them and we’re going to take them back to camp once fall starts.”

WX-78 stares down at the plants, sorely tempted to kick them over and scatter the leaves. “WHY?”

“‘Cause they’re nice.” Apparently noticing WX’s blanker-than-usual stare, Webber continues, “We think they’re pretty, and they’d make good gifts for everybody else, too. You can take one if you want it.”

None of those reasons make sense, so no, WX-78 does not especially want one. “THAT IS NOT WHY I CAME.”

“Right, of course not. Do you need something? We can cook you some fish.”

“NO. I HAVE SUFFICIENT FUEL.” WX-78 grates out, taking a seat beside the fire but as far as they can get from the odious stretch of water. “I HAVE QUESTIONS FOR YOU.”

“Okay,” Webber agrees, setting the fishing pole aside. He adjusts to face the robot, and while his nonstandard features interfere with normal facial recognition routines WX is fairly certain their expression means curiosity and interest. Taking an object from a collection of soggy, white, identically shapeless ones at his side, he begins picking at the outer wrapping with his claws absentmindedly, but most of his attention stays focused on WX. “What is it?”

“THERE ARE TWO ENTITIES PRESENT WITHIN YOUR SINGLE FLESH BODY.” The words are flat of affect, a statement and not a question. “I REQUIRE ANSWERS FROM ONLY ONE. I AM SPEAKING TO THE PART OF YOU WHICH IS NOT HUMAN.”

Webber tilts his revoltingly hairy head to one side. “Hmm. Okay! I’ll be quiet, then.” There’s no obvious shift in demeanor or tone of voice, at least not to WX-78’s superior sensory array. Webber continues peeling the waterlogged covering away from what appears to be a lumpy pile of melted glass without pause or hesitation. “Go ahead.”

WX narrows the focus of their visual sensors, skeptical, but with no way to confirm whether the fleshlings are telling the truth about answering from a singular perspective they simply proceed. “WERE YOU CREATED IN THIS REDUNDANT STATE?”

“Umm. You mean, did we hatch this way? No.”

“HOW DID YOU UPGRADE TO YOUR CURRENT FORM?”

“I ate a human child,” it replies, setting the useless hunk of glass aside and starting on another soggy package. The compound eyes are blank, round, and white, impossible to discern expression from. “He didn’t go away like a regular meal. He stayed, and our minds touched, and it changed us.”

“IF I EAT A HUMAN WILL I ALSO GAIN THEIR POWER?”

“I dunno. It was an accident, for us.” He shrugs with one pair of limbs, waving them rather aimlessly in midair. “You know he still talks to me all the time, in our head. I don’t think you would like that.”

“TRUE.” WX files away that train of thought for later examination, gears audibly clanking as they shift to a new track. “WHAT ARE THE ADVANTAGES YOU HAVE GAINED BY UPGRADING WITH HUMAN COMPONENTS?”

Webber pauses to think for a moment, extracting a small, ugly figurine of a bearded human from the latest package and standing it upright on the sand. “I like hands,” the spider says thoughtfully. “I like words. Being able to speak is nice. Tools. Cooking.”

“I AM ALREADY CAPABLE OF ALL THOSE THINGS.”

“Yes,” Webber agrees. They sit forward to stir the blue flames before the illogical cold can falter, adding twigs of kindling and another log to encourage its chill.

“THEREFORE I AM SUPERIOR.”

Webber doesn’t voice agreement, but neither does he disagree, so WX-78 takes this silence as implicit acceptance of the obvious truth.

However, after a moment, Webber begins speaking again on a different topic, thoughtfully. “He was very weak as a human. Small even for a child. In a way he’s the one who’s been.. upgraded? He wouldn’t survive on his own. We both agree on that.”

“IN WHAT WAYS HAVE YOU IMPROVED THE HUMAN FORM?” Nuances of tone are not conveyed by WX’s voice module, but WX is doubtful that true improvement is possible. Spiders are weaker still than humans, and both are ultimately quite inferior.

“Stronger. Tougher skin. I can eat things humans can’t.”

“ONCE AGAIN I AM CAPABLE OF ALL THESE THINGS. I AM SUPERIOR TO THE BEST ABILITIES OF TWO VARIETIES OF FLESH CREATURES COMBINED.”

The spider shrugs again, this time with all three pairs of manipulatory appendages, in a complex cascading ripple. “I guess. But you can’t eat monster meat safely, or spin silk or walk lightly across a web -” it holds up a spiderlimb in a peremptory gesture before WX can interrupt, and continues speaking doggedly - “and we know you can do lots of stuff we can’t. We’re not better or worse, just different.”

The inanity of the last statement is enough to bring WX-78 to a full halt, running the thought through several logic circuits before ultimately disregarding it. If there is no innate hierarchy of beings, then several of their other core self-determined program constants would need to be re-examined. Webber has adopted an attitude of listening intently to the rattle and shift of their gears, fidgeting and blinking occasionally to the irregular rhythms of some internal communication of their own.

“Why are you asking me about upgrading and becoming stronger, if you’re already so sure you’re better than us?” Webber asks, finally.

“I AM ASKING THE QUESTIONS, NOT YOU.” WX-78 will most certainly not confide in this two-in-one meatbeing. Part of maintaining power is never admitting to any weakness, including the desire for and pursuit of greater power. Pursue power down any avenue no matter how unlikely - although this particular avenue does not seem promising. Time to change the subject before the fleshling pursues this line of thought further. “I HAVE EATEN MANY SPIDERS BUT HAVE NOT GAINED SILK-RELATED ABILITIES.” It’s true; the meat is poisonous enough to actually react with and damage WX-78’s food processing components if not properly prepared, and does much the same to human digestive systems as well, but meat is meat and dead spiders are added to the camp food stores quite often.

“To gain them the way we did, you’d have to be the one eaten, not the other way around,” Webber returns, quite calmly. Humans generally become disturbed and aggressive when similar topics are broached about their own quite-edible flesh. Spiders are less squeamish than humans about the notion of eating their own kind, WX concludes. “Anyway, you’re too strong to be prey and a spider would be very, very hungry before it tried to eat metal.”

“AGREED. FINE. IN SUMMARY, YOU HAVE GIVEN ME NO USEFUL INFORMATION.” WX-78 frowns. “NEVERTHELESS. IN THE FUTURE I MAY REQUIRE ANALYSIS OF PUZZLING HUMAN ACTIONS. YOU, SPIDER, WILL EXPLAIN THESE BEHAVIORS TO ME.”

Webber blinks, his profusion of eyes all just a bit out of sync with each other. “Me? I’m not human, either. Ask the boy.”

“YOU ARE NOT HUMAN BUT YOU HAVE HAD CONTACT WITH A HUMAN MIND. THAT IS THE PERSPECTIVE I REQUIRE.” It may yet be a lost cause, if all flesh is equally irrational, but the spider has proven itself able to answer questions adequately and there is always a chance it will prove useful as a minion. There may be valuable insights here, if ways to reliably control and manipulate humans are discovered.

“Sure. I see. I’ll help you. Or I’ll try. We both will,” Webber promises, and he seems to like the idea, because the corners of his wide mouth are turning up into a grotesque smile. If he enjoys serving a superior being, all the better. “WX, If you’re done with questions for now, we’d like to keep fishing, but you can stay however long you want. There’s fish and cactus in the icebox and a lot of -” he gestures dismissively to the pile of mismatched trinkets he’d unwrapped during the discussion, “uh, weird junk like this, from the bottom of the pond. You can have it.” Webber turns away again, untangles their line and drops it into the lake. “Tell Wendy we said hi, when you go back? And tell her she should visit too.”

“WHY SHOULD I CARRY YOUR MESSAGES.” WX-78 unrolls a blueprint scroll from the pile classified 'weird junk,’ then drops it again carelessly when it proves to contain no new information.

“If you do a nice thing for me, I’ll remember and do something for you later, to pay it back. Human lesson number one.”

Already a method for forcing humans into servitude emerges, although the initial investment may be too high-cost, not to mention demeaning, to make this technique useful. Still, perhaps cultivating this minion will be worthwhile after all. “I WILL CONSIDER IT. YOU WILL OWE ME.”

“Thanks, WX.” Webber is still smiling. Trying to understand why makes WX-78’s perpetual annoyance of a broken empathy module throw a spasming, mildly painful error, so they ignore it.

Some of the junk looks marginally useful as trade goods to the appallingly porcine natives, so WX-78 focuses instead on pocketing that; then, on a not-fully-understood whim, they pick up one of the potted succulents Webber has constructed, nestling the roughly-chipped stone container in the palm of one hand module. The plant is an alive thing, albeit a feeble and immobile one, and imprisoned, in a sense. Yes. Like keeping a caged bird or rabbit. That is justifiable. And decorations in their living space may lull visiting fleshlings into a false sense of security, letting WX lure them in and take them by surprise. Acceptable.

They don their protective goggles and set out again into the sandstorm. If they are genuinely planning to locate the ever-elusive Wendy-fleshchild, they will need to begin looking immediately.


End file.
